Cinderella and the Pulitzer Prize

At this moment, a Pulitzer-winning poet is stacking some papers on a podium. She's clearing her throat and thanking the person who introduced her. Maybe she's smiling or maybe she's bowing her head for a moment before beginning to read. Whatever she's doing, I'm not there.

Unexpectedly, at the end of today, which has been marked by kids (like all my days are), and significantly, has been full of joy and contentment, I am now feeling a bit like Cinderella left behind at the ball. Martin rushed out the door, cup of tea in hand, to walk to the event, and I finished the dishes and sat down in the disheveled dining room (which I've cleaned up already twice today). As I sank lower in the morass of my own personal misery, I heard my mother's voice telling me to stop being such a baby and empower myself. I could have arranged to go tonight. I don't need to wait for a fairy godmother. I could have hired a babysitter.

But then I argued back: in an age when women are supposed to be empowered, why is it that we have to remind ourselves to BE empowered, when, for many men, that is already assumed? I thought about telling Cinderella: These people don't own you. Shake free of this learned helplessness. Get a microloan. Go out and start your own business, one chicken at a time.

And I told myself: Come on. Nobody's oppressing you. Think ahead and find a babysitter next time. At home instead of at the poetry reading? You have nobody to blame but yourself.

And I told myself (and this is related, believe it or not): Be more disciplined and write your book.

To add a humorous note to my frustration (by making me see myself in a more realistic light) Merry just got frustrated over a bookmark that she decorated (to enter in a contest) that she decorated with the motto: Fly Away With Your Imagination and READ!. She started listing genres on the bookmark: Fantasy, Mystery. . .She wants to add: Realistic Fiction, Fiction, Etc., and draw pictures.

"I just don't think there's enough room on the bookmark." I was pointing out the obvious, a fact that already had her worked up.

"But the judges will think I just picked two random genres," she argued passionately. "They want something more than this. These days. . ." She trailed off as if the world is a hard nut to crack. Then she got that Merry look that warns me she is overwhelmed and about to cry. "I just don't want to talk about this anymore," she said, and filed the bookmark back in her folder.

Already in fourth grade and she's feeling the same roadblocks as I do now. And I have to wonder, how many are from the world, and how many are from our own expectations of what we as women should be accomplishing, even though we accomplish an awful lot?

Just today I had to tell myself to relax and enjoy life. There's nothing you absolutely have to do today, I reminded myself. . .And in the end, I did enough today (not least of all, I drank endless cups of tea to try to cure my stubborn sinus cold), and I wrote my column for the week. . .but even now I'm chastising myself for not writing thirty minutes on my latest project and not planning ahead for the Pulitzer poet. Finally, I can add to my list: Figure a way out for Cinderella. Come up with an economic plan and the right words to make her stand up and leave the fireplace. I can't just leave her waiting around for her fairy godmother. And surely she has better places to go than to a ball.

Questions I'd Like to Ask M

Subject line just in from Mr. Patrick David, in my spam box: "OPEN THE ATTACHMENT AND GET BACK TO ME." No problemo, Patty. I'll just click on your bonny attachment and wait for your call.

I'm feeling pretty good at the moment because I just finished a feature article on the Town and Garden Country Club (it's their 60th anniversary); the sheer weight of information and expectation was hanging over my head like an anvil. So I began to chip away, evah so slowly, remembering all the while that tomorra is anutha day. . .and now it's done! Hallelujah! The first draft was so boring that Martin fainted into a deep sleep while reading it, but the second and final draft moves along at a crisp pace and even I am still interested when I read it.

Two people in particular fascinated me. The first was a woman in her mid 90's who has spent her life saving and then giving money (along with her husband) to colleges and other worthy institutions. Sitting in this woman's modest home, you would never guess the astounding amount of funds this woman and her husband have given away. I didn't see many ornaments in her home besides a vase her mother had painted, a painting she had done of bearded irises, and a pretty table runner she sewed. Her husband built the house and they have lived there for sixty years. She sat in the sunporch, laughing and chatting with me, light catching the plant next to her elbow. She described the sacrifices her father (who worked at a coal mine) and her family made to send him, and then herself and her brothers, to college. She was handing over all her extra pocket change to the bank teller when she was a kid, depositing it in her education account that would grow sufficiently over the years to send her to college and to graduate school at Duke. She was married during World War II, and seventeen days after the wedding, her husband, who had already returned to the service, was sent to Africa. For two and a half years.

Before I left she told me how she had taken a small handful of hollyhock seeds, planted and watered them in a box. All winter she watched the tiny stems unfold: two, three, four leaves. They bloom in a bright, majestic row in her garden this summer.

Though she is almost 101 and can't talk or hear much anymore (so I didn't get to meet her), M, another woman, intrigued me. She earned a degree in home economics, never married, and worked 19-hour days operating a ferry boat (it was part of an inheritance), a rough task that involved unsticking the ferry when needed and transporting miners across the river and back. In the photo, her face is exquisite: creamy skin and movie-star eyes, a hat turned back so she could see where the boat was headed. Amazing. The woman who visited and told me about M mentioned that M's eyes are still as beautiful and as captivating as they were when she was a young woman with an inherited ferry boat and endlessly long days in front of her. And I want to ask her a whole book of questions, want to hear her voice rising and falling as she explains what her life was like, why she persevered, if she enjoyed her job, whom she met, if she would do it all over again if she had the chance.

Before I change into my jammas, something I am anticipating with glee, I will give you a quick update on Merwin. Seen, once, at 7:00 as I sauteed onions, skipping with umbrella in paw from the kitchen cart under the piano. He was wearing a fake glasses/nose combo, but I recognized him, all right. Tomorrow, the trap comes.

Say WHAT?

Near the end of our waffle consumption this morning, Merry (who had finished first) breezed into the kitchen and said, "Mommy,can I be a Cover Girl?"

Martin's and my heart almost stopped. "What?"

Merry repeated herself. "Mommy, can I be a Hover Girl?"

Well, that was a different matter entirely. Earlier, sitting next to my oldest child, who was dressed in a 1982 striped exercise suit with a skirt from the dress-up box, I'd noticed her humming in a high and awful manner. "Merry, please stop that noise," I said. "It sounds like you're a bug."

"That's what it's meant to sound like," she answered, with a faraway look in her eyes.

All morning, we've had two girls and Hover Girl, who zooms around the house whining like a mosquito. There are three specific hover-moves: upwards hover, downwards hover, and side-to-side hover. Despite great protestation, I made her change out of her exercise suit into regular clothes, and now she's Purple Hover Girl, charged with bringing peace to grocery stores (apparently, our local market is currently overrun by robbers and desperately in need of a visit from P.H.Girl) and spreading goodwill everywhere.

Martin and I discussed the problems of hovering, including not being able to stay put on a toilet seat and hovering at other awkward moments--at school, for instance--but overall, it seems like a good thing. We're just grateful Merry isn't pining to be a Cover Girl--anything would be better than that: Sewer Girl, Rock-Splitter Girl, Drainpipe Girl, anything. Even insect noises.

Beautiful and Safe

Those of you who know Elspeth, our middle child (now five), either through this blog or in person, know she's got her own since of style--she swings through life to her own fantastic rhythms. Often, we have no idea what her secret music sounds like until she looks up from seemingly manic scribbling and shows us a complicated picture, embellished with unexpected details. Unless you have a weak heart or become nervous easily, Elspeth will charm you with her quirky creativity.

Lately, I've felt like short-order cook in the mornings, armed with hairbrush instead of spatula. I survey three little girl heads and whip up some order with bows and bands. Elspeth has very strong (but inclusive) opinions about what is beautiful, and I try to accommodate her bordering-on-crazy notions when I can. Yesterday morning, she asked me to braid her hair in four plaits around her head. Later, on the way to a playgroup, she burst out: "I have four braids and I feel like the most beautiful girl in the world!"

My mother left a book behind for me to read, and a few nights ago, I finally cracked it open, a little wary of the serious and potentially depressing content. I was surprised to feel not only burdened but also inspired and completely enfolded by the stories of girls around the world, particularly in developing countries, who are victims of trafficking and forced prostitution. As I read the stories, I couldn't help but feel that those girls were my girls--or me--in a different country, with a different history. I highly recommend the book: Half the Sky, by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, winners of the Pulitzer Prize. Last night, I told Martin, You have daughters; you must read this book. But if you know a woman or a little girl, you must read this book.

This Christmas, I noticed my dad tearing up at one point as he looked at our three daughters. He observed how happy and secure they were, and I thought of his work in relief, preventative health and development (through World Concern--look them up--their projects are tremendous) in countries where sex trafficking and the forced slavery of young women and girls is much too common. (So common, in fact, that there are more enslaved women and girls worldwide today than there were slaves in the 1800's in Europe and America). Often, these women suffer not only the abuse of their forced work but also a death sentence from AIDS. It makes me look at my girls with gratitude and humility and then look from them to the thousands and thousands of girls who suffer around the world. How many, like Elspeth, do not feel the security and happiness of feeling as if they are the most beautiful girls in the world, loved by many?

Attracting Females

Near the end of our chicken curry tonight at my sister's house in Washington, my seven year old nephew Josiah, who had been quiet during the meal, spoke up.

"Some males sing. Some fight. I'm going to dance."

We begged that he expand, so he said, "Well, male aminals like to attract females. I'm an aminal, and I'm a male, and I'm going to attract a female."

We asked Josiah to show us his dance but he said, "No. I'll feel foolish."

Bribing ensued, and finally promised four pieces of candy from the gingerbread house, Josiah scooted off his chair and laid himself, belly down on the floor, where he began to slither like a snake.

Bea was curious. Wearing her pink tutu, she sidled up to Josiah where she got down on her hands and knees right next to her cousin. Josiah jumped up.

"I attracted a female!" he cried triumphantly. Then he glanced around. "I need another male!" he announced, "So we can do the fighting thing."

Apparently he was pleased with his first experiment as a male aminal. When neither Granddaddy or his dad offered to take him up on the fighting thing, Josiah got on the floor again and began howling--and was marginally less successful with his singing than with his dancing,

But he received great accolades from the adults, and he is now, at this very moment, eating his reward: four delicious pieces of candy from the gingerbread house.

Working From Home--ha, ha--Working in the Home?--Working not on the home but in the home

Good souls, all. I am actively ignoring tasks: three baskets of laundry, one turned over, guts spilled across the floor; wet sheets in the washer; pizza dough for dinner unmixed and unformed. My desk is a disaster--pages of a short story in a kafuffle with notes to myself about poetry and a column, all marked up, waiting correction; the CLMP blue book, cover bent, bristling with make-do bookmarks, and folders overlapping Merry's spelling words and Elspeth's pictures. And this is only the room I can see at this moment, from one angle. My life feels similarly scattered: appointments I must make, phone calls and e-mails to compose, prayers to write for church, and a million pieces of minutiae. And then this funny sort of bungling through writing--currently I have poems, columns, creative nonfiction, and a short story in progress (with the kid's stuff simmering on the back burner). I am in the midst of two books, one great novel by David James Duncan and one travel book by William Least Heat-Moon, and I've got three or four waiting.

So right now, I am forging ahead, not into the frigid waters of obligations, but through the warm, salty sea of my own private lagoon: first a cup of tea, then writing. As a friend of mine said this noon about the lunch dishes, "We'll let the Help get this--" of course there is no help except the kind that comes at the end of the day in a form of a partner arriving home or in the plea to the Greater Power: Somebody HELP ME, though God does not do dishes or fold laundry.

When home and work is the same place, it's best to be able to shove all the duties of one to the side for a few hours--it's the only way, really, and though I never imagined I'd be able to work in such a sty, I can. It's like I open a door into A Room of One's Own--not a physical place as yet but a good mental place. And everyone needs one of those, yes?

Happy weekend, everyone. Go and do something lovely. Multiply your best idea of happy hour and spend many of them the next two days with precious people you love, without working about your to-do lists. I'll try to do the same. We'll meet on Monday and see how well we did. Deal?

Roofing in the Darkness: the Girls Playhouse Continues

What light Martin is going on is beyond me. His inner light, perhaps, or the fireflies, or his supersonic night vision goggles. Now that it's more or less pitch outside, I am glad to hear the screen door slam. I think that means that the roof is up. After I read to the girls tonight, they reported that "Daddy was on the other side" before they scooted off to bed. I do not think they were speaking figuratively, or at least I hope not.

My contribution to the fence and playhouse is holding a few rafters in place, buying gatorade and klondikes, and spending TWENTY-SEVEN days straight with the children. Yes, you heard me correctly. This week I've been putting them to bed every night. Tonight we suffered the second flour-eating incident of the week (that's when Bea waits until I've cleaned the kitchen to clamber onto the counter and eat handfuls of flour from the gallon jar I keep there for baking), an assault with a building block (middle child), and much moaning from one eight-year old, who is also a very active informant. Three days in the nineties has made us all a little fractious, though overall--and now that I am more clear-headed due to five minutes without any children--the three weeks of construction have been enjoyable and relatively facile. I am ready for a bit of a break though, and I'm sure Martin will be, too.

The reason, my dear friends, who are scratching your feminist heads at this division of labor--the reason is that if I had built either fence, playhouse (or last year, shed, and the year before, our front fence), they would have all been laughable disasters. I say this because I know myself and my mathematical and spacial limitations. I don't know how good I am at being with my own children--I'm grateful that they are all alive! But this is about division of labor and who's naturally inclined and talented, not about who's swinging a manly arm with a hammer attached and who's suckling the brood. Martin shows a remarkable aptitude for building, which is foreign to me, coming from a family who only raised a hammer to hang pictures.

Note that the fence ends abruptly on the side yard? It LOOKS weird, but it's planned--our forsythia hedge, which is somewhat smallish at the present moment, will someday meet the fence and carry on down the side yard in style. And the big blue shade tent is just in the Children's Garden temporarily, to give Martin some respite--usually it's over the adirondacks (until our fruit trees grow bigger and stronger.)Also, that funny little bit of deer fence is only temporary.

He just came in; he says that if he gets up at five in the morning, we may just be able to leave after breakfast to go on our overnight trip to Deep Creek, Maryland. Five a.m. is a wonderful idea, don't you think? I'll pat his back as he rolls out of bed: Good job, darling! Keep the old cylinders firing!--and all that.

August Ripens

August ripens, falls bruised from the stem.

I can't say I'm sorry to see it go. August stretched on and on and though it was filled with many good things, I feel all a tingle for autumn. Cool days, endless apples at Farmer's Market, the leaves deepening and finding their true expressions. It's like feeling ready to see your grandparents; it's recognizing a need for silence and the comfort that cold outside and warm inside brings.

Perhaps I am especially excited to see August go tonight. We are at the end of a three-day warm spell, and tonight the house is full, stuffy, and stale. Finally the evening is cooling, and I have already completed the fan ritual, throwing open windows, arranging the air flow to exhaust the old and bring in the fresh of evening. I love our old house, but sometimes long for central air. Stifling summer days force you to close your windows and your curtains in a desperate attempt to cradle some of the evening's cool, and this results in a rather dark, airless house. Imagine my excitement as the day sighs, opening its palms finally to the darkening sky of evening.

Tomorrow is supposed to linger in the 70's, a temperature I am anticipating greatly. The locust tree outside my office window seems mellowed by the change, too; its leaves flutter wearily in the breeze. It is an eccentric tree, weighed down with heavy honeysuckled vines. It is quite messy, actually, but it stands by faithfully as a quiet friend, a spindly, ungainly companion that has sustained many hours of writing and revision.

Martin is downstairs, strumming away with two other friends from the college in preparation for a folk festival this Saturday. I am glad he makes music happily, in his "node" as his mother says, but I couldn't help feeling a little ruffled after spending the day indoors in a hot house, cleaning (I only did it because it the mess, the spider webs, the clutter, threatened a coup) and feeling rather woozy with two children. I continued the ruffled, discontented feeling until I sat down with Elspeth, read and sang to her, and then, she safely in bed, continued on to this quiet space. Quiet spaces are invaluable. I need them to sustain me. I need them in what seems sometimes like a daily battle to be kind and hopeful.

And so, on the eve of the last day in hot, weary August, I hope that you too find and bathe in the quiet of a sacred space.

Peace.

Merry is Laura, I'm Ma, Daddy's Pa

And Elspeth is Carrie. Merry fussed about over Elspeth at the table, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, waggling her finger at Elspeth's button nose. "No, no, no!" Merry admonished, as Elspeth flung her mashed-potato covered spoon to the floor for the third time.

I've realized, now that we're in the thick of "The Long Winter," that calling Merry "Laura" occasionally as she requests works to my advantage. Laura immedately obeys, even when an internal battle rages; she's courageous; she lives to help. This afternoon Merry piled miscellany in the back of her tricycle and pushed herself across the grass, scouting for a good place to camp for the night. I was digging holes for the notorious Poplar trees with Elspeth--sorry, Carrie--strapped to my back. "Laura!" I'd call, and Merry would go running cheerfully upon some noble errand--fetching me the phone or carrying trees. Like a true Laura-Pioneer (as Merry calls her), Merry held the trunks for me on the steep slope while I tamped them in. Elspeth swung happily on my back, watching us.

Outdoors. Imm. . .I finished digging up the turf to make a bed for mint today (thinking Song of Solomon's "Many waters cannot quench mint. . ." stopped here and did not go on to "We have a little sister and she has no. . .") Also planted my hydrangea tree in the front of the house, a scrawny little snowman arm that contains somewhere the energy to explode into balloons of flowers. I'll believe it when I see it.

When I finally detached Elspeth from my back and we went inside, Merry was happy as a little duck and energetically washed the supper dishes with lots of soap and cold water.

Tonight we read three chapters of "The Long Winter." When we were finished, Merry sighed deeply. "I wish I could be Laura," she said. "I wish I could live back in those days."

I began to list all the things she might miss if she lived then: electricity, indoor plumbing, videos. . .Merry piped up. "Well, I wouldn't miss videos," she said, and agreed that books were much better than TV. Then she leaned over and gave me a big hug. "But you're better than a book!" she cried.

Well, that is high praise, and enough to get me through the next few days while Martin will be away in Deleware at a prof.'s conference. Poor chap--a hotel room all to himself. Two or three years ago the thought of being alone for days on end with two children would have made me blanch. But now I realize that much of life is about choice (the rest is grace=two easy children) and whether or not I will have a rollicking fine time is up to me. I have in my possession a lemon pound cake, and this I will consume tomorrow evening with friends. Also I am tossing around several options (all indoors, alas, because of spring rain): painting a wall, removing a kitchen cabinet, writing a poem series, knocking out a wall with a sledgehammer. Staying up all night watching BBC Netflix? Driving to Montana? What would Laura-Pioneer do?

Bells on Her Toes, And That's All

*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
I was recently romanced by the sheer beauty of this nursery rhyme. Of course I've heard it since I was a child, and in all likelihood, you have too. But as the strains of "Ride a toy horse" filled our house yesterday afternoon, I realized for the first time what a sparkling little gem this nursery rhyme is. It's not clunky like Humpty Dumpty or smart-alecky like Little Jack Horner. It's whimsical and lyrical:

Ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross
To see a fine lady upon a white horse
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
She shall have music wherever she goes.

I began conjuring up a faint picture of the lady, rings glittering on her fingers, bells jingling on her toes. I knew she must have historical significance, so I jolly well looked her up.

The most accepted story behind the fine lady includes Queen Elizabeth I of England traveling on her magnificent white horse to view a stone cross at Banbury. She gleamed with fine jewels, and minstrels accompanied her in splendid regalia as she condescended her attention on the little town of Banbury. The impressive cross at Banbury was later desecrated by anti-Catholics in one of the many bloody Prot.-Cath. conflicts.

Bells on her toes? If you were a queen, my dear, you were allotted bells on your elegant little shoes.

Very nice.

I did find an origin to the nursery rhyme that rather suits my style better, and I've been saving the best for last.

Long ago, Lady Godiva had rather an unfortunate husband. Leofric, Earl of Mercia, though he may have been a decent chap in other respects (unlikely), decided his tenants needed to pay more from their shallow pockets into his coffers. He imposed a terrible tax.

Lady Godiva advocated for the poor people until finally Leofric pulled his brows together, sputtered through his sherry: "Blast it, Godiva, I'll tell you what I'll do. Ride naked through Coventry, and you'll have your way, [irritating wench]."

So what did she do, this fine Lady Godiva?

You got it. Saddled up the white horse and mounted him stark naked. The folk in Coventry stayed indoors, but you can bet they were making plenty of music behind their curtains.

And Leofric lifted the tax.

Now, whenever you sing the old nursery rhyme, you might want to think of Queen Elizabeth in all her stately finery. But I will be singing it to my daughters with a triumphant swing, and raising my glass to naked Lady Godiva.

--Pic. Sources (in order:)http://www.rootsweb.com/~engcbanb/fairlady/page1.htm; http://www.rhymes.org.uk/ride_a_cock_horse.htm
--Lady Godiva story found www.indianchild.com/history_origins_nursery_ryhmes.htm

Teach your Kids Violence: Read them the Old Testament

Last August. We sat out on the porch, basking in the late summer warmth and enjoying a quiet dinner. The coal mine groaned from across the valley but our neighborhood smelled like newly-mown grass. Merry was four.

We had company. Merry, big lovely eyes luminescent in the early twilight, looked up from her plate. "Guess what Elephant did now?" she began. (Elephant is Merry's alter ego in a parallel universe called Cornia.) Our guests listened politely. "He went into the dark dark woods, but then there was a wolf."

Since we are not feeding you dinner, let me make a long, long story short: Elephant defends himself by many means that prove futile. Finally, Elephant cuts off the wolf's head and totes it home triumphantly. Oh, fraptious day! Elephant has slain the wolf! Elephant swings in the door, announcing, "WOLF HEAD for DINNER TONIGHT!" I do believe I've left out other gory details. Needless to say our guests were well entertained and probably concluded we were bad parents who let Merry stay up watching late TV.

But everything Merry ever learned about violence (barring a couple bang-bang-you're-deads from two boys with plastic pistols) she learned from pouring over her children's copy of the Old Testament.

Today at lunch Merry paused in the middle of her peanut-butter and marmalade sandwich. "Mommy?"

Oh, blast. Merry regularly asks things like how a bathtub is built, the existence of Jesus, why did God make mosquitoes. Merry seems to believe I am an endless fount of trivia and general knowledge and her questions are far-ranging, covering more than spirituality and engineering.

"Yes?"

"Mommy, how did that little rock kill Goliath?"

I opened the door to the little storeroom where we keep compost. A musty odor filled my nostrils. Banana peels, coffee grounds. "Well, maybe it was a sharp rock, like a knife."

"But how did David know he would kill Goliath?"

"Well, I guess sometimes you just have to do the right thing even if you don't know whether it will work out or not."

As Elspeth spit out apple peels and flung bread to the ground, I realized my answer was problematic and poor. Maybe you have some good reasons as to why this answer stunk, and I have mine.

First, I hate answering in the same old cliches that parents always are guilty of on Hallmark TV and bad movies.

Second, we are pacifists. I had just told my daughter that an exceedingly violent act was the right thing to do.

Third, the sentence itself was badly constructed. Pauline-like prepositions, run-on, readability--definitely F.

Fourth. Hmmm. Well, depending on what you believe, there's a fourth. I happen to be from the camp of people that believes that most faith "giants" were real, quaking people inside somewhere. Maybe you think David had the faith to know everything would work out in the end. I don't even think Jesus knew for sure when he was about to die that everything would definitely work out. He acted out of obedience and love, not out of knowledge.

But I digress.

Merry ate her sandwich in silence. Was she turning over the inadequacy of my blithe answer?

Instead, she opened her mouth to ask another question. Very probably it was about one of her favorite Bible characters, "Bad-Man-Herod" or Sampson. Instead she said, "That place where Daddy keeps his tractor is a PIG-STY."

Ah, delight in children. Most often Merry is quick to point out my inconsistencies. But here she did not. There are only three things I do not allow into the house: play guns, Barbies (equally if not more harmful in an insidious way), and dirty shoes.

But at Merry's request I read her the Old Testament. Of course stories have conflict and often have heroes and villains and the fight between good and evil. But the difference here is the issue of Merry's spiritual heritage. When reading Merry the Old Testament, I am in a mindset of my Sunday School lessons, blowing my trumpet for the fall of the wall of Jericho; cutting off Goliath's head in glad victory; crushing my enemies with the mighty sword of Jehovah. (Certainly every tender child felt the weight of Jael's hammer as she drove the tent peg through the general's temple--oh, wait. Actually, that story is not in Merry's Bible. Neither Jael or Rahab make it to the pages. But Delilah does, of course. No Bible, not even a children's Bible, could leave out a tasty morsel like Delilah.)

I do not say, as I say every time we talk about violence on the news or in the course of life, "That is a sad way to deal with a problem, isn't it, Merry?" Instead there is the implicit message that Samson was a HERO, tearing down those temple walls and smashing all those people in the ruins. GOOD JOB, Samson!

Then there follows this strange dichotomy I often see in conservative Christian households.
Sex on TV? Superbad. Violence? The more the better!
Feminism? Lies. Subordination of women? God-given right.
Gay marriage? An abomination. War that kills innocent people? Justified.
Money spent on welfare? A waste. Billions on bombs and military? Worth it.

But I didn't mean to get so negative. Count the above as a rant born from the frustration of a person who is tired of the way things are but doesn't know all the answers, either.

Merry's question sparked by a child's Old Testament reminded me of the discomfort I feel with this idea: the divine entitlement to victory for "God's people" through bloodshed. It is a lie that has haunted America since the beginning of our country when the Native Americans were robbed of their land. It is a lie that continues to haunt us now as more innocents die in Iraq. When did we forget that we are all God's people, and all deserving of peace?

Merry sang a song at bedtime today. Imposing my mother's perspective on her song I hope it is about God's Kingdom of peace on earth (whether she knows it or not!):

The seeds have to be spread in gardens
And the plants will sprout and finally bloom
The vision of God's day has bloomed.
God is the bloomer of each day. . .
The most thing that we have to do to please God
Is to be kind to other people
For the God the only Son is in my heart all day and all night.


P.S. More on Arizona is forthcoming, I promise; I'm just waiting for pictures!

Miss Vanderbilt--Ahem--There's a Dog Paw in My Pudding

**see photo source below I wonder how many wives could resist rising up in unholy protest if husbands suddenly took to wrapping their heads up in wire and head rags, greasing their faces, tying up their own chins, putting on oiled mittens for the night.--Vanderbilt 513

Amy Vanderbilt is a good read. If you've run out of Jane Austen, consider a nightcap--settle into a good chapter of New Complete Book of Etiquette / The Guide to Gracious Living.

Ms. Vanderbilt is side-splitting (not generally an acceptable mannerism) for several reasons:

1. She often writes tongue-in-cheek (but only in private; tongues should not reside in cheeks in the public domain).

2. This historical edition of Etiquette, this interminable commentary on correctness, all 706 pages (excluding the index), is an archaic catalog of the many graces our modern society blithely deposited in a waste can. And this is hilarious, because I am me and you are you. We only remember manners like Amy's in some past great aunt or in the blue flickers of a British sitcom.

3. The minutia is astounding and worth remark. Jane Austen, yes, but here the minutia is broken down in instructional chapters. My manners have slipped, yes, but just how many disappeared? For example, I can choose from a list of topics, from pages 212-220, read, and master The Social Pleasantries:

"Gifts of Love" * A Guide to Tactful Conversation *
When to Use a First Name * If You Cannot Remember Names *
Personal Questions--What Are They? * Dangerous Topics of Conversation * How to Parry Direct Questions * That Word "Lady" * How about "Miss!"?

And so on. I wish I could delight you with the entire list.

And egad! I certainly encourage good manners. Suddenly, as when you look at your dirty house in spring sunlight, I have viewed our table manners and shuddered. "When we come back from vacation," I warned at dinner tonight, "We are lodging a frontal attack!"

I talk with my mouth full, keep my knife in my right hand at all times, and point with my silverware. I am up and down from the table like a wind-up toy. Martin leaves his napkin on the table for the duration, sprinkles crumbs like Hansel, and occasionally brings along reading material (not for group edification, mind you). Merry eats many no-no things with her fingers and groans about soup for the third time in a week. And Elspeth is our crowning glory. She kicks up her feet into her food, which resides temptingly on the bare tabletop. She casts all things to the ground while grunting and smiling. She stuffs vegetables into the unreachable crevices of her highchair.

Every woman should change for dinner, if only into a clean house dress. Dinner is the high point of the day, the forerunner--it is to be hoped--of a free evening. Every little girl should be clean and in fresh clothes, even if they are just clean pajamas and bathrobe for nursery supper, every night, so that the idea of changing for dinner is inculcated at the earliest possible time. . .[she goes on]. . .Fresh grooming for evening is one of the criteria of gentility. --Vanderbilt 183

Scene: Evening. Mother and children lying exhausted on couch. Husband Martin sets the table and cooks dinner. Wife requests a cup of tea but receives none. Dinner is ready. The lovely family enters grandly (no bagpipes) for this "forerunner of a free evening:" Elspeth is still in pajamas from the morning. Merry is stained by tomato soup (did we brush her hair this morning?) and her face is crusty. And I, that paragon of gentility, have already showered and am clad in my biggest, softest, smelliest red bathrobe. Hair freshly brushed? No. Make-up? Heck, no. Heels? Try slippers.

All right, we do all have head colds. But Amy Vanderbilt would point out that is no excuse.

And last night, I gave myself a sharp wake-up call when I tossed a cooked carrot across the table, head of to foot of, mind you.

My great aunt would have di-ed. Actually, it is probably a good thing she has, because our table manners have become worthy of a Berenstein Bear's Book, a TV reality show, a PBS special.

In fact, Fred Rogers surfaced earlier this week as Merry critiqued our table manners and then systematically listed new rules for a new, gentler family dinner.

One, one, one! One, we need to start putting bibs on Elspeth.

Two, we need to start putting napkins on the table.

[Merry goes on--skips four, and continues--]

and seven [two fingers thrust into air]--We need to start behaving at other people's houses,

and number eight, we need to start turning lights on,

and the last one, we need to start picking up Elspeth's food that she throws on the floor.

Then she paused to survey our shocked faces, since we had all suddenly grown pig snouts and were snuffling in main dishes like the parents in Spirited Away. Undisturbed (she had seen it before), she concluded, "The person who wrote Mr. Rogers is very talentive."

Gentle people are often acutely embarrassed by the table manners of those with whom they find themselves eating. A carefully bred wife may suffer much inner torture because her husband--always when manner seem very important--forgetfully leaves his spoon in his cup or absent-mindedly licks his fingers. --Vanderbilt 229

I think I can conduct myself with adequate propriety. My mother certainly pressed upon us all the importance of the placement of the knife, the proper usage of napkins, appropriate dinner time conversation (no bodily details, no fights, no descriptions of illnesses.) And so on. She even let me know what to do when a "foreign matter" entered my mouth, such as a disgusting piece of gristle or fat or bug (and we had those occasionally on our produce growing up in Kenya). But I forgot this one night on a date with Martin as I audibly expectorated a piece of sushi, back onto the artful arrangement of lettuce and beet shreds on my plate. I love sushi. But my taste buds told me something was amiss with this one. Martin, let me tell you, was utterly horrified. Really. In retrospect, I feel I should have brushed up on foreign matter, or foreign bodies as Miss Vanderbilt terms them:

Foreign bodies accidentally taken into the mouth with food--gravel, fish, stones, bird shot--are removed with thumb and forefinger. . .If a gnat gets into a beverage or some other unappetizing creature turns up in or on a diner's food, he fishes it out, unobserved. . .or leaves the drink or dish untouched, depending on the degree of odiousness of the intruder. A gnat or a tiny inchworm on lettuce shouldn't bother anyone, but most fastidious people draw the line at a fly or worse. --Vanderbilt 232

This leaves me in pleasant reflection as I imagine what "or worse" could be. A rat. A human finger. A chicken head. Teeth.

But I am clearly missing the point. Besides, the list above does not constitute polite conversation, in any company.

Forgive me.

GUESS BELOW IN 'COMMENTS': WHAT YEAR WAS THIS EDITION OF VANDERBILT'S NEW COMPLETE BOOK OF ETIQUETTE PUBLISHED? AND DON'T CHEAT. IT'S NOT GOOD MANNERS.

**For more on Amy Vanderbilt, and for the source of her photograph, go to: http://www.britannica.com/eb/article-9074800/Amy-Vanderbilt (photo: 1956, Brown Brothers).

Feminist Reading of Boneheads, Stegosaurs

As we flipped through Usborne's "First Encyclopedia of Dinosaurs and Prehistoric Life," Merry took in the pictures of fast-running, sharp-clawed, dagger-toothed dinosaurs. Meat eaters, made to rip and shred and ingest one another. Merry's mouth gaped. Suddenly she asked,

"Are WE meat?"


I have to admit, I am not a dino-fan. But Merry was rivited as we turned page after page of endless saurases. And then the text began to tickle my funny-bone.

Read the following exerpts with a feminist lens and see if they're not funny:

"Stegosaurs were big and heavy, and could only move slowly. . .Their bodies were almost as big as a bus, but their brains were the size of table-tennis ball." Here you can see the size of a stegosaur's brain compared with its body. (insert picture here of huge animal with teenytiny brain).

And my all-time favorite. Boneheads: "Pachycephalosaurs [had] bony domes on top of their heads. These dinosaurs are sometimes known as boneheads."

(And my favorite line:) "Male boneheads sometimes fought each other."

So the world evolved. But some things never changed.

Daughters, Body Parts, Facts of Life

Gender issues--they start early. Elspeth is still utterly unaware that she is female. At one year old, people are big or small, but they are all to be played with and smiled at, though Elspeth more readily trusts smaller people and has a distinct aversion to people with beards, male or female.

But at five, Merry is already very aware of gender and many of the things that go with it. Though we try hard never to ascribe roles to gender or typify boys or girls, Merry has figured a few things on her own.

Boys do not generally wear dresses. Despite the history I gave her on women's rights and how women had to fight to wear pants, Merry steadfastly refuses to wear anything but dresses. Boys and girls have different physical characteristics. Boys are often more physically rough than girls--Merry believes this beyond a doubt, since she has personal experience to back up this belief: she has been bitten, pushed, her hair pulled, jostled, etc.--almost entirely by boys. When she was just four, this history of violence made Merry immediately wary of boys, and if there were any on the playground, she hung back in terror and clung to me for dear life. We explained to her that many boys were gentle and fun to play with. She did not believe us.

Since then she's had a few key male friends, and she has started to trust the male race a little more. So much so that today when Martin picked her up from preschool, she announced she had made friends with Richard and Devin. Two boys, in point of fact.

Martin was pleased, and mentioned in the course of conversation, "Boys and girls sometimes play differently, don't they?"

"Yes," said Merry, "Because they have different bottoms." She was of course referring to the undeniable fact that boys have penises and girls have vaginas.

She has known this for a long, long time, way back when she was two. And then, when she was three, she started to make use of her knowledge. The following scene took place a year and a half ago in Iowa.

_____________________________
My friend Amy and I sat at the table near the window, chatting over a book we had read, as her son Theo ate chalk and bobbed his head happily. Her four year old Simon and my three year old Merry sat on high stools at the breakfast bar, rolling play dough. Their voices suddenly raised to a high pitch:

“No, you don’t!” Merry yelled, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed.

At intervals, Simon was grinning and then frowning in a perplexed way. “Yes, I do, Merry,” he murmured, studying a green piece of play dough plastered to his fingernail.

Merry put her chin in the air, smiling slyly. “No, you don’t,” she proclaimed again. She banged down a cookie cutter on the counter to emphasize her superior knowledge.

This exchange went on for some time. Amy and I paused our conversation, trying to understand what our two kids were ragging on about. Finally, Amy leaned toward me.

“I think Merry is telling him that he does not have a penis,” she said.

“Merry,” I yelled over my shoulder, “Simon does have a penis.”

Merry stopped mid-shout. “Oh,” she said, and shrugged. “Okay.”

Simon lowered his head to look at her. “I—I told you I had one,” he stuttered, relieved.
_____________________________
When I was about eight, it occurred to me that babies had to come from somewhere, just as a cake emerged from mixing a certain set of ingredients. So I asked my father. I expected a facile answer.

My father was standing over the sink, cleaning his razor. He told me: “The daddy gives something special to the mommy.”

“How?” I pursued.

My father stopped talking, and a pregnant silence followed. Finally he said, “We’ll tell you soon.”

For a day, I imagined the most awful things I thought possible: does the mother eat something gross from the father? Do they exchange saliva? Nasty! I never guessed--I could never have guessed--the horrifying truth.

My mother broke sex wide open for me the next evening. I was in the bath with my two-year old brother. She explained, concisely and graphically, what baby-making was. I looked at her, a washcloth hanging limply in my hands, my face and insides contorted with disgust. Why would God make such a thing necessary in order for the creation of babies? The splashing of my naked brother suddenly sounded very loud in the quiet of our bathroom.
______________________________________
Later in the car, Simon reviewed his conversation with Merry. First he reaffirmed the fact that he did indeed have a penis. And then Simon asked Amy: “So what does Merry have?”

His mother told him, and Simon asked what a vagina looked like. His mother struggled to explain, and after she had finished Simon was quiet for a moment. “Will Merry grow a penis?” he finally asked.

And on our end, Merry also continued the discussion. “Mommy,” she said casually, “Simon has a penis.”

“Yes, he does,” I said. “And what do you have?”

“A vagina,” she answered.

I am glad Merry knows the proper names for body parts, and it is natural she should notice differences between the bearers of those two body parts. All the same, I am glad to wait for a few years before Merry asks me for more specifics. The gender issues have started already, and it's early enough.

My Father is a Feminist

After staying up too late last night reading Wendell Berry's novel, "Hannah Coulter," in which the protagonist grows up working hard on a farm, going to bed exhausted from manual labor and rising early, I awakened around 7:30, longing for a sleep-in and coffee. Merry was singing a song at my elbow; Elspeth was alternately chewing on my nipple and crawling on my head. I stumbled downstairs and immediately and grumpily began taking stock of my husband's shortcomings. (My husband loves and looks forward to this pasttime of mine). He had not swept the floor or washed the cookie sheet from the night before; he had not fixed me coffee; he had not changed Elspeth's diaper. Never mind that he had cooked dinner the night before and cleaned the kitchen, or that he had fed Elspeth breakfast.

After a good strong cup of coffee, I was able to find my inner reason and begin again my internal discussion of feminism. What does it mean to be a daily feminist? Does it mean ticking off household duties, weighing out who did what and deciding whether I am succumbing to prescribed roles? My brother-in-law has pointed out that the women in my family talk hard feminism but love their men. Well, the two are not exclusive. Gentleness and feminism are not by any means contradictions of each other. And being a feminist does not mean that women are grouchy people or militants, though they jolly well have equal rights to those two things! But the point is, nobody, regardless of who they are, has the right to treat another person badly.

I grew up with the best parents possible. My mother was a feminist in every true meaning of the word; she consistently instilled in her daughters self-respect, determination, and idealism backed by the practice of hard work. She pooh-poohed moodiness, never gave stock to self-pity, and expected us to work hard and hold fast to true ideas of ourselves. Under her guidance, I never doubted for a minute that I was inherently worthwhile and strong. She generally espoused the notion I recently heard in "Mary Poppins," that while men with exceptional character can individually be adored, "as a race they're rather stupid." She did not encourage false vanity and even laughed at it but always, always affirmed that we were beautiful not because of how we appeared, but because of who we were, deep down. Nothing could change that, no matter what people said about us or did to us.

My father is a gentle, soft-spoken, easy-going humble man who works hard, thinks well, succeeds quietly, and loves us all with a deep, abiding tenderness. I have never heard or seen disrespectful behavior from him, especially regarding women. He takes a lot of flack and criticism from my sister and I, but he knows we are proud of him and hold him up as an impossible ideal for all men.

The point is, my parents are more who they are than what they do. My father has his PhD in public health and is a writer; my mother is a powerful speaker and has her Masters of Christian Education, which she took course by course with Kenyan classmates when I was in high school in Nairobi and enjoyed every minute of it. Both my mother and father are self-sacrificial. Both expect and value self-discovery and individual pursuit in each other, and share and nurture newness in each other. Both value family over everything else; both profess to love each other more than they love us, emphasizing that this is the way to love us best. They are not perfect, though I often thought they were. Their marriage is not perfect, though there is far more to admire and emulate in their partnership than to criticize.

My mother is a feminist, and my father is also a feminist. And how could a daughter ask for more?

I wish I could say I fell in love with my husband Martin at first sight. I did not. But I did fall for him at second sight, which is almost as good. After our second meeting, and after just one kooky, wonderful conversation, I told my roommate I had found the man of my dreams. Martin's mind and manner were the first draw; after that I found out he was a musician and a writer. I understood always that he was exceptionally kind in the deepest way. I didn't think much of his poetry at first, but as the years passed I began to think he was an excellent poet. It is handy to be married to a fellow writer, and it is good to be married to a life-long learner and a gentle person. When we married, we discussed children and decided that when we had them, we would both work part-time and stay home part-time. I can say in perfect honesty that Martin would have been happy to stay home full-time while I went out to work.

And then Merry came along. Martin was in graduate school and I was teaching English at the Jesuit high school in Missoula, MT. After my maternity leave, I went back to work, leaving Merry at home with Martin during the day. After work, I came home, Martin passed off baby like a baton and went on to his evening classes. It was miserable. Every time I stepped outside to walk to work, I felt as if I were ripping out my heart and leaving it bleeding in the doorway. Once I was at work, I enjoyed teaching my classes. But I couldn't shake the thought of all I was missing, with Merry changing quickly and still just an infant.

To make the separation harder, Merry refused to take my bottled breastmilk and cried all day, so Martin began rushing her in for feedings during my breaks. I barely saw Martin. We quickly realized this was no way to live.

And then I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I wanted to stop working at the high school and stay home with Merry. I longed for it so much that I categorically insisted that this must be. Martin felt a bit double-crossed, since we had discussed childrearing and agreed that we would share it evenly. "I don't care what I said then," I told him, "This is how I feel now." And so Martin sacrificed for me, and found a full-time job, and I got my heart's desire and stayed with Merry.

This is what the partnership of marriage is about: a life-style of mutuality and self-sacrifice. We have followed Martin's vocation to many different places, and though I take my vocation with me wherever I go (parenting at 'home' and writing), moving in pursuit of his job prospects has involved hard work and sacrifice from me. But it is mutual, and it is based on choice, and that is truly liberating.

I am baffled by women who talk as if they exist purely for the whim of their spouses. "Poor so-and-so," they'll say, referring to their husbands, "I haven't put on lipstick all week." And then, often in the same breath, they berate their spuses and denounce them as demanding and unreasonable devils.

I do not dress, or wear make-up, or do anything purely for Martin's benefit, anymore than he does everything for my benefit. To do so would be unhealthy, because acting in such a way would put unrealistic expectations upon each other. I do not wait around for Martin to fulfill all my needs. He does not depend upon me for his self-worth. If Martin died, God forbid, I would suffer, but I would not stop being a whole person with high expectations of myself and my daughters. And I would jolly well keep putting on clothes to please myself and nobody else.

What Martin says, or does, cannot change the person I am at the core of my being. And vice-versa. At the same time, we expect and celebrate all the things that we mutually contribute to each other and to our family. We realize that we are a small community of sorts, made to exist within a larger community. We realize and affirm that our love for one another must sometimes, and often, involves self-denial.

But true feminism does not come from a series of things I do, or what my profession is (though who a person is and what they do dynamically affects each other). True feminism comes from inside me, from a deep, unchanging well of self-respect and faith that I am whole, worthwhile, and capable. This is an ideal that I wish for everyone I love, male and female. It is a reality that I am constantly reminding myself of and working towards.

Tomorrow, I want to think more about feminism and its practical implications for my daughters.

But now my Elspeth is awake and typing with one hand while I breastfeed with the other is proving tricky. (Note to self: You chose this.) Right-o! So I did! Hallelujah!

Dead Mice, Feminism, and Why I as a Feminist am Not Good All the Time

Merry thrusts her arms into the air, like a mad swimmer. She is conducting her invisible orchestra. Peanut butter and jam smear her cheeks. I don't care if I'm not good! she sings to the increasingly vigorous baroque music burbling from the radio. I don't care if you're not good! She plunges a finger into her sandwich, leaving a hole.

This is lunch time, after which I open the doors to retrieve a plastic-wrapped square of dish detergent (the same that Elspeth took a bite from and then vomited into the sink two weeks ago). I slam the doors shut, put a hand to my mouth, admit into the air a high-pitched sound that is generally reserved for passionate and rodent encounters both. AHHH.


--What is it, Mommy?

--Nothing, I say, as I shove the handles of several wooden spoons through the cabinet handles.

--Yes, I saw you put your hand up to your mouth.

I try to banish the glimpse of the mouse, in a pool of coagulating blood, snapped by the trap.

It's not that I didn't want to catch the little rodent.

We've been trying for weeks. At the beginning we felt sorry for the mice but were optimistic about a catch. My husband, Martin and I tried for the last part of an evening hunched over the little traps, bending back the springs and almost losing fingertips. Finally Martin pronounced his triumph and superiority with dohickies by getting the trap to stay sprung. He set it gingerly in our kitchen cabinet, and we arose the next morning with apprehension. Martin's bravado from the night before had sadly diminished in the face of mouse murder--classic morning after--and so I threw open the cabinet doors myself, expecting to see carnage. Instead, the mouse had escaped with the peanut butter, which is no small feat considering its adhesive properties, but left the trap intact. Martin, who is a pacifist to the core, seemed secretly pleased.

As the mice outsmarted us night after night, his pride in them grew.

You're really happy they're getting away, I told him.

No---he said with an odd light in his eyes--But it is really a smart mouse.

I asked him if he had prayed that the mouse would escape. And he said, kind of.

I reminded him of disease, and that we have a child who eats everything, including indistinguishable things, in greedy fistfuls from the ground. I went back for more traps. There was a prominent display of traps at the front of the store, including a huge rat trap that made me shudder. As I paid, I told the men at the hardware store: I used to feel sorry for the mice, but I don't any more.

They laughed.

--Yes, I said, I can hardly wait to see their little necks broken.

They stopped laughing. This cessation of merriment, I know, was prompted by the realization that I was not so much funny as frightening. I had crossed the line from being femininely charming to being a feminist. Or a mad woman. Both of these things--feminist and mad women--I am into. But I do not think the hardware chappies were.

In any case, I talk a bigger game than I play. One glimpse of that gory mouse and understood two things:
1. the source of the odd smell I had detected off and on all morning
2. the fact that I would, in the near future, call Martin and tell him that I would rather
a. clean up human vomit
b. move away
c. scream my guts out
than deal with the dead mouse.

"Of course you would rather clean up vomit," he said, when I told him. "So would I. So would anyone."

Don't get me wrong. I am a feminist, and I am a tough woman. I have endured Elspeth falling down a flight of stairs with an open pair of scissors; roto viruses; boils as a child. But dead animals somehow just put me over the living edge.

We all have our weaknesses, and like Merry, I don't care if I'm not good. I will shovel the snow tonight, and Martin can jolly well take care of the mouse.